


Born of Hardship

by deacertes



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: All4One Big Bang 2014, Aphasia, Community: all4onebigbang, Episode: s01e04 The Good Soldier, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 12:27:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2348435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deacertes/pseuds/deacertes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos' expression turned wry. "You might say that ours is a friendship born from hardship and tempered in a crucible of fire."</p><p>D'Artagnan leant across the table, his eyes alight with interest. "Will you tell me?"</p><p>Athos lowered his cup and regarded d'Artagnan thoughtfully. "Very well. It began five years ago..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Born of Hardship

The rain was still beating a persistent tempo against the tavern window when Porthos set down his fork and pushed his unfinished dinner aside. "He should be back by now."

Athos responded with a nod and without any further exchange, Porthos put on his hat and left.

"Is he going to look for Aramis?"

Athos gave another wordless nod and went back to staring morosely into his cup.

D'Artagnan refused to be discouraged. "Do you think Aramis is all right?"

"He will be, eventually."

"You didn't like Marsac very much, did you?"

Athos shrugged and took another drink before speaking. "Recent events did not dispose me to look favourably upon him, and unlike Aramis, I cannot claim prior knowledge of his character."

D'Artagnan frowned. "Didn't you know him when he was a musketeer?"

"No. His departure heralded my arrival."

"Did Porthos know him?"

"Not well. Porthos was a new recruit when I joined the regiment."

"Is that when you met Aramis too?"

Athos nodded. "Porthos and I were given the duty of caring for him while he recovered."

"Was he very badly hurt?" asked d'Artagnan, quietly.

Athos paused with his cup halfway to his mouth. "He was not himself."

"Then that's how the three of you came to be friends?"

Athos' expression turned wry. "You might say that ours is a friendship born from hardship and tempered in a crucible of fire."

D'Artagnan leant across the table, his eyes alight with interest. "Will you tell me?"

Athos lowered his cup and regarded d'Artagnan thoughtfully. "Very well. It began five years ago..."

 

 

  ** _Five years earlier....._**

"Aramis?" Treville waited patiently for the dull gaze to focus. "It's all right, son. You're home."

Treville knew that Aramis had been found by local woodsmen the morning after the massacre; a lone sentinel keeping watch over twenty dead. They had cared for him until word of what happened had eventually reached Paris. Treville wasted no time retrieving his musketeer, but this broken, hollow eyed young man was a far cry from the vibrant, smiling Aramis he remembered. It was abundantly clear that Aramis was going to need someone with him while he recovered; someone who could anticipate and handle the reactions of a wounded soldier. Treville's thoughts turned to his two newest recruits.

On paper, Porthos du Vallon seemed an unlikely musketeer. The son of an African slave and a denizen of the Court of Miracles, he had shown his true mettle when he had come to the aid of a lady of the Court, who had become separated from her companions. The lady's finery had drawn the wrong attention; in turn her desperate cries brought Porthos, who quickly subdued the thief accosting her. In the ensuing confusion, Porthos had been taken into custody along with the thief - though it had taken a number of guards to subdue him.

When the young woman had recovered enough to tell her story, Porthos had been released and brought before the King and Queen, who wished to thank him personally for saving one of the Queen's ladies. Though clearly uncomfortable, Porthos held himself with modest dignity, accepting their gratitude with a bashful smile and a low bow. When it came to rewarding him however, the King appeared to be at a bit of a loss. Until Treville put forward the suggestion of a commission to the musketeers; pointing out that they needed men of principles, with the power and conviction to back them up. The Cardinal was amused, the King delighted, and Porthos had received his commission there and then. He was already earning the friendship and trust of his fellow musketeers through his good humour and intense loyalty. His swordsmanship needed work, as did his use of a musket, and he was one of the most awkward men in the saddle Treville had ever seen, but such things were easily addressed. He had a great deal of natural fighting ability, being fast, agile and strong. He could think on his feet, which made him a good man to have on your side during trouble. Porthos also possessed compassion and patience, two qualities he would need in abundance if he was going to care for Aramis.

Strictly speaking, Treville's second new recruit wasn't due to join the regiment for another week. Treville had given him that long to dry himself out.

Treville had not expected to find the Comte de la Fère in a cell, having caused something of a ruckus in a tavern the night before. Treville had heard vague mutterings about what had led a once promising young man to become a drunkard, but he did not pay much heed to gossip. He put far more store in his own judgement, and he did not believe the man he remembered could have changed so very much. He agreed to keep Athos' identity a secret. In return, he told Athos to sober up and serve his King.

Treville insisted the men who served under him gave their all to the regiment, he would settle for nothing less. Athos had one chance to prove himself.

The more he thought about it, the more Treville wondered if either man was particularly well suited for the task he had in mind. Though he had little choice. He had barely enough men to carry out the duties normally assigned to musketeers, and it would be a cold day in Hell before he would allow any of the Cardinal's red guards to fill that role. In light of the Cardinal's betrayal, Treville wondering if that hadn't been a part of Richelieu's plan all along, to see his own men installed close to the King.

With Aramis settled in the barracks where he could oversee his recovery, Treville went in search of Porthos. He found him in the stables, warily brushing his horse.

Porthos met Treville's gaze a touch sheepishly."I figure if I spend enough time around him, we won't be at odds so much."

Treville found himself smiling. "A man should care for his mount. It's not so very different to being responsible for the rest of your kit. You can only rely on it if you look after it properly."

Porthos nodded, but didn't resume brushing the animal. "Can I help you, sir?"

"Yes, we've got our man back, but he's going to need some assistance while he recovers. I'd like you to take care of it." Treville waited to see what Porthos' reaction would be. Porthos didn't disappoint him.

"Do I carry out my other duties as well, or will he need me around all the time?"

"I will be assigning two of you, you can divide whatever needs to be done between you as you see fit. You'll both be excused your other duties until Aramis is well again."

"Aramis?"

"You know him?" Treville wasn't surprised. It was like Aramis to have tried to make Porthos feel welcome.

"Yeah, he came over to talk to me my first day here. Is he badly hurt?" The concern in Porthos' voice was genuine. Clearly Aramis had made a favourable impression.

Treville wondered how to explain something that he himself didn't fully understand. "He suffered a blow to the head; it seems to have left him slightly confused."

Porthos' eyes widened and they shared a look of grim understanding. A blow to the head had led many a man to permanently lose their wits. "But he'll get better?"

"Yes." Treville knew it was not within his power to make such a claim, but he could not bring himself to consider the alternative. "What he needs now is time and the support of his brother musketeers."

"He'll get it," said Porthos.

"Good." Treville left Porthos grooming his horse, and set off in the direction of Athos' lodging house. Given the hour, Treville had little doubt that was where Athos would be.

******

Treville hammered loudly on the door. When that failed to get a response, he tried the handle. The door was unlocked. The room itself was shuttered and dark. Empty bottles littered the floor. Treville picked his way across the floor and kicked the bed. "Get up." He ignored the younger man's incoherent grunt and crossed over to the window, flinging it open to let in a blast of frigid air.

"Nnnngh," Athos moaned, raising his arms to cover his eyes.

Treville was about to walk back, when something on the window ledge caught his eye. He brought the bucket inside and set it down on the floor in front of Athos, who was in the process of slowly sitting up. "Here. Dunk your head in that."

"I think not," said Athos, polite and formal, despite smelling like he had spent the night in the gutter.

"I need you sober," said Treville. "I can vouch that will do it."

Athos ran a shaky hand over his face. "I didn't..." He wet his lips. "I didn't think I was to report for duty yet."

"There's been an incident," said Treville. "If I had the time to wait for you to dry out, I would. But I need you now, and I need you sober. So get yourself together and report to the garrison."

Athos' alcohol sodden mind latched onto one word. "Incident? What kind of incident?"

Treville paused with his hand on on the doorjamb. He glanced back. "My men were on a training exercise near the Savoy border. They were ambushed."

Athos felt the hairs on the nape of his neck prickle at something in the Captain's tone. "Did they suffer many casualties?" he asked, cautiously.

"Only one," said Treville, hoarsely. "One casualty. One deserter. Twenty dead."

Athos blinked slowly, his eyes widening in shock. "Dead?" he repeated.

"Yes," Treville snarled. "Now get yourself fit for duty. I want you at the garrison within the hour."

Athos' response was instinctive. "Yes, sir." He continued to stare blankly at the door after the Captain had gone. Twenty dead? How was that possible? Who had attacked them? In one clumsy movement Athos slid from the bed onto his knees. Bracing his hands against the sides of the bucket he plunged his head into the water. His skin tightened with the shock of it. Athos counted off the time he stayed under, finally sitting back on his haunches gasping, with water running in icy rivulets down his body. Athos shook off the worst of it and then snagged the cover from the bed to rub himself dry.

Struggling into his coat and boots, Athos performed a few unsteady lunges and stretches to try and loosen up his stiff limbs. He fastened his sword belt around his waist and donning his hat, hastened to the garrison.

On his arrival, Athos found it strangely quiet, there was none of the usual noise and bustle of men going about their business. Treville stood alone on the balcony to his office. He signalled Athos to join him, before turning and going inside. Athos crossed the courtyard and knocked on the door at the top of the stairs.

"Come in."

Treville was seated behind his desk. There was another man with him. Tall and powerfully built, with a neatly trimmed beard and close cropped ebony curls. His sharp gaze studied Athos before he nodded a greeting. Athos responded in kind.

Treville introduced the two men."Athos, this is Porthos. He already knows why he's here, so let me give you the same information. We have one survivor, his name is Aramis. He's not badly hurt, but he's going to need help while he recovers."

Athos felt the first stirrings of unease. "Are we to understand that you wish us to oversee his care?"

Treville pinned him with a hard stare. "Is that going to be a problem?"

"Not at all. But surely this Aramis would prefer someone known to him. A family member, or a close friend?"

"He has no living family that I am aware of, certainly not in the city. And his friends met their deaths in that forest. Save for one, who chose to leave him there with the dead."

"Is it possible that he was involved?" Athos asked, carefully.

Treville had to remind himself that it was a fair question, given that Athos knew nothing of the circumstances surrounding the attack. "No. Marsac was a fine soldier, and a true musketeer. He would never have betrayed his brothers."

Athos inclined his head in a manner that implied both acceptance and an apology.

Treville looked away, focusing on Porthos. "What happened is not your business, gentlemen. You need only concern yourselves with Aramis and his recovery. Can I trust you to do that?"

Both men nodded.

"Good. You will find Aramis in the corner room of the barracks." Treville addressed them again as they turned to leave. "I would ask that you do not judge Aramis too harshly. He has been through a terrible ordeal and he is not himself. Remember that in your dealings with him."

"What do you suppose he meant by that?" Porthos asked, once they had reached the bottom of the stairs.

Athos shook his head. "I don't know. I suppose we will find out. Shall we find our charge?"

Porthos knocked on the door of Aramis' room. Receiving no reply they entered, and instantly had to duck to avoid the cup that came hurtling towards them.

Athos and Porthos straightened up, exchanging concerned glances.

The room's lone occupant was a young man with bedraggled dark hair and an untidy beard. His complexion had a sickly cast to it and the bruised shadows beneath his eyes spoke of his recent ordeal. Though it was the look in those eyes that kept them both standing in the doorway. They promised further violence if either man should cross the threshold.

Athos performed the introductions. "We are here under the order of Captain Treville. My name is Athos, and this is Porthos."

Aramis frowned quizzically. "Musketeers?"

"No," said Athos.

"I am," corrected Porthos. "New recruit. Remember, you spoke to me once."

Aramis looked troubled and shook his head. "Sorry," he murmured.

"No matter," said Porthos. "Athos is a new recruit too. Just started today, in fact."

Athos' expression drew a narrow eyed stare from Aramis.

"Not... want... that?"

The question was clumsily phrased; nevertheless, Athos thought he understood. He was less certain how to answer. However, he tried to be diplomatic, hoping to avoid being the recipient of any more hurled objects.

"Not at all. I am grateful to the Captain for offering me a place in the regiment."

"I'm grateful too," said Porthos. "It feels good, being a musketeer." This earned him a slightly less hostile look.

Athos decided to let Porthos approach the bed first.

"The Captain said to see if you needed anything. So, do you?" Porthos asked.

Aramis' expression tightened and he shook his head. "No. Leave."

"You sure?" Porthos asked. "Only you just threw your only cup away. What if you get thirsty later?"

Athos hoped they hadn't furnished Aramis with anything sharper. He had no desire to dodge anything more deadly than a cup.

"Leave," Aramis repeated, more forcefully.

"Fair enough. How about I get your cup first though, yeah?" Porthos left Athos standing in the middle of the room while he went out into the hallway to look for the cup.

Athos did a quick inventory of the injuries he could see. Aramis had an abrasion marring his left cheekbone; the only other wound of note was concealed by a bandage around his head.

Porthos returned with the cup and set it down on a small table. On the floor under it was a bowl covered with a cloth. The was no smell of sickness, so presumably it was precautionary. Judging by his state of dress and the matted blood in his hair, Aramis had simply retreated to his room following his arrival.

From his own standpoint, Athos felt that it would be difficult to recover with the stench of blood and sweat clinging to you.

"You should change your clothes." He tried to rephrase it so that it came out sounding less like an order. "That is, you might wish to consider putting on some fresh clothing."

"Yeah, clean clothes would be good. And maybe wash some of that muck out of your hair. We could give you a hand if you like?" offered Porthos.

Athos gave him a sidelong glance. He had never washed another person's hair in his life and felt slightly wrong-footed by the prospect.

Aramis didn't seem overly enthusiastic either, though he responded with a monotone, "Yes."

Porthos' calm, easy manner smoothed over the awkwardness.

"I'll get what we need for washing," he told Athos. "See if you can find some clean clothes for when we're done."

Porthos left before Athos could either agree or object.

Aramis didn't appear to notice. He was staring at his hands.

Now that Athos looked closely, he could see what looked like dried blood beneath Aramis' fingernails. Athos wondered if it was his, or if it was from a vain attempt to save his friends.

Hunting around the room, Athos found a clean shirt, braies, and breeches. When he looked up Aramis was watching him warily. Athos felt unexpected warmth flood his cheeks.

"My apologies, I should have thought to seek your permission before going through your things."

"No... good... good." Aramis made a frustrated noise and curled his hands into fists. "Good... good. Good. Yes." Exhaling forcefully, he turned his face away and fell silent.

Athos pursed his lips thoughtfully as set the clothing down on the end of the bed.

Porthos returned with the water and soap. However, when he rolled up his sleeves to assist Aramis, the other man protested. Albeit with gestures more than words, making it clear he felt that he could manage alone. "I can... I can... no... I can... "

Porthos frowned and glanced briefly at Athos, who responded with a discreet shake of his head. Porthos took the hint and ignored the broken speech.

"If you don't want our help that's fair enough. Though I dare say the Captain won't be too happy with us. Right?" He looked at Athos.

Athos raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement.

Aramis gave a gusty sigh and signalled that they might approach. He removed his shirt to reveal a torso dotted with bruises.

"How do your ribs feel?" Porthos asked.

Aramis' face implied he didn't much care whether or not they pained him.

"What if I fetched some warm compresses later? Would they help, do you think?"

After a moment's hesitation, Aramis nodded.

Athos turned his attention to the dressing covering Aramis' head wound. He used a little of the water to dampen the cloth where dried blood had adhered it to the skin. Aramis was stoically quiet throughout this procedure.

Once it was removed there was thankfully no sign of putrefaction. The exposed gash was a good six inches in length, extending up past Aramis' hairline. Small, fairly neat stitches held together the worst of it.

"We had best avoid those," said Athos. "We don't want to have to sew it closed again."

Aramis leaned out of the window while they filled a pitcher with water and poured the contents over his hair, washing out as much of the dirt, blood and debris as they could. In addition to the filth, Aramis' hair was also a tangled mess. Porthos apologised whenever he snagged his fingers in a knot.

Once they had finished with the water, Athos quietly made a suggestion.

"Do you have a comb that I might use?"

Aramis pointed to the corner of the room. A small trunk contained all manner of personal paraphernalia including books and letters, and a small comb.

"I can do it if you like?" Porthos offered.

Athos declined with a small shake of his head. This was something he could do. Moreover, he found that he wanted to. Athos surprised himself by offering up something of his past.

"I would do this for my mother," he explained quietly. "She took ill when I was a young boy. Eventually she was too tired to do this task for herself. I used to comb her hair through for her every day."

He stopped for a moment, briefly lost in the memory. He was startled by a hand on his arm.

Athos didn't pull away; acknowledging Aramis' wordless sympathy with his own silent nod of gratitude, before resuming his task.

"I'll go and see about getting us something to eat," said Porthos.

Athos finished during his absence and set the comb aside. He found himself at a loss to fill the silence. His thoughts took a melancholy turn as he realised he could not recall the last time he had touched someone in kindness.

He shook the thought off and it was then he realised that Aramis was shivering.

The musketeer had made no move toward the clean clothing on the end of his bed. Athos picked up the fresh shirt and held it out.

"Can you manage alone?" he asked, politely.

"I can... I can... dress... yes."

Watching Aramis, Athos decided that he was conscious of and troubled by the stilted nature of his speech. The level of frustration implied that it was most likely a recent occurrence. A side effect of the head wound, or something else? Athos knew of men who had left the battlefield unable to utter a single word, rendered mute by the horrors they had witnessed.

Whatever the cause, Athos didn't think there was anything to be gained in drawing attention to something that was already causing Aramis distress. He simply handed the shirt to Aramis and wandered over to the open window. Ostensibly to look out for Porthos, but also to offer Aramis some privacy.

He was still standing by the window when Porthos walked up to it.

"Are we eating out here?" Porthos looked past Athos into the room, addressing the question to them both.

Aramis didn't respond.

Athos rephrased the question. "Will you join us outside?"

This time Aramis glanced at them. Porthos maintained an easy smile, Athos tried to school his own features into something less unapproachable.

Aramis gave a reluctant nod and stood.

*****

They seated themselves around a table in the yard. Porthos set a plate of food down in front of Aramis, while Athos poured him a drink. Aramis glowered.

"Not... a... cat."

Porthos looked at him, nonplussed.

"What?"

"Cat... not... cat... not." With a sound of frustration, Aramis snatched up his plate and hurled it away from him.

When it looked as though the rest of the table's contents would meet the same fate, Athos intervened. Reaching across the table, he caught hold of Aramis' wrist.

"Enough. You are not a child. Stop this."

Aramis glared and clicked the fingers of his free hand impatiently.

"Yes... yes... not... a... cat."

Porthos looked between them. "That's what you're trying to say? You're not a child?"

"Cat... Not... a cat." Aramis yanked his wrist free, his expression anguished. "Cat... not..."

Athos and Porthos exchanged a troubled look.

"A moment, if you please," said Athos, getting up from the table. He returned with a small scrap of paper and a stick of charcoal. He set them down in front of Aramis. "Write it."

Aramis frowned, but took up the charcoal and wrote 'I am'. Rather than finish the sentence, his hand hovered over the piece of paper. Eventually, he shook his head. "No."

"You know that you want to say child?"

The look on Aramis' face said that he did, and was confounded by his inability to do so. He threw the charcoal down and stood, refusing to look at either of them as he left the table and headed in the direction of his room.

"If he knows, why can't he say it or write it?" Porthos puzzled aloud.

Athos wondered the same thing. "I have no idea. But it obviously troubles him."

"Can't say as I blame him," said Porthos. "You think that blow to the head addled his wits?"

"Perhaps."

"So what do we do?"

"We carry out our orders. We concentrate on getting him back to full strength. He can train with us."

"He's damn good with a musket," said Porthos. "Least he was."

"I did not think you knew him?"

"I don't. Not really. We spoke a few times, and I watched him train with the others."

"What is your opinion of him?"

"He acts like a Lothario, but knows his way around a blade. And like I said, he's good with a firearm. Sharp too, I don't reckon he misses much. Confident, but not a braggart. He speaks well of the women whose company he keeps, no matter whether they're a fine lady or a lass from a tavern. I've never heard him boast or make crude remarks about a single one."

Athos considered this. How might an eloquent man, robbed of his ability to express himself feel? "I fear the duty we have been given may prove somewhat challenging."

Porthos harrumphed and poured them both another drink. "I'd rather be stuck with horses." Seeing the unspoken question in Athos' look, he explained. "I never had much to do with them before I joined the regiment."

"You don't like horses?"

"I don't dislike them," Porthos hedged.

"But you do ride?"

"A bit."

"Perhaps I could be of help?"

Porthos eyed him closely. "You would do that?"

Athos nodded and drank. "Besides, it may serve another purpose."

"How so?"

"It may be of benefit for Aramis to see that he is not the only one who is struggling to master a straight forward task." The humour in Athos' eyes took the sting from his words.

Porthos looked at him in disbelief and then laughed, slapping his hand on the table. "Just you wait, my friend. We'll see who has the upper hand when we practice hand-to-hand." He cracked his knuckles meaningfully.

Athos took in the impressive breadth of Porthos' shoulders. "I think I can predict the outcome."

Porthos smiled.

The pair finished their food then went to look in on Aramis. They found him asleep on the bed, exhaustion having finally taken its toll. When they stepped back outside, Treville called them over.

"I want you both to remain at the garrison while Aramis is in your care." He looked at Athos. "Bring what you need from your lodgings."

Athos frowned but agreed.

"Very well."

*********

Athos collected his belongings and paid his rent to ensure that his rooms would be held. He had no intention of making the garrison his permanent residence. He arrived back there to find Serge the cook and Porthos standing in the courtyard. Both men looked worried; their glances kept shifting towards the darkened doorway of the cookhouse.

"Gentlemen?"

Porthos in particular seemed relieved to see Athos.

"It's Aramis. He's holed up in there with a loaded pistol. The thing is, I don't think he even knows where he is." Porthos' mouth turned down unhappily. "I only left him for a moment."

"Where is the Captain?"

"With the King."

Athos unbuckled his sword and handed it and his pistol to Porthos, who accepted them with a frown.

"What are you planning to do?" he asked.

"Speak with him."

"We've tried that," said Serge. "He threatened to shoot a hole in me if I didn't shut up. I've seen this before. Men wandering around after a battle, lost inside their own heads. You can't reason with them."

"Perhaps we should wait for Treville," Porthos suggested.

"And if he shoots himself while we wait?" Athos shook his head. "No. I can at least try."

Porthos gave a reluctant nod.

"Be ready," said Athos. "If he does get off a shot, you must reach him before he can reload."

"You had better be quick," Serge warned. "That boy's fast. He's a damn good shot too."

Athos acknowledged the warning with a slight inclination of his head. Then he removed his hat and placed on the table. Holding his hands out before him, he walked slowly towards the doorway.

"Aramis? Aramis, it is Athos. Would it be all right if I came inside to speak with you?" There was no reply. Taking a deep breath, Athos stepped through the doorway.

The first thing he noticed was the heat given off by the fire. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the interior, he saw various pots and cooking implements scattered around. A large wooden table dominated the room. Meat and vegetables were suspended on strings from hooks in the low beams overhead.

Movement caught his eye and in the same instant he saw Aramis, crouched in a corner, holding a pistol out in front of him. Aramis' gaze flitted anxiously about the room, but didn't appear to focus on anything.

"Aramis?" Athos paused when the pistol swung toward him.

"Who are you?"

"It is Athos, remember?"

"Athos?" Aramis' eyes narrowed suspiciously."I don't know anyone called Athos."

Athos observed how Aramis refused to look in the direction of his voice.

"Aramis, will you look at me?"

Aramis shook his head jerkily.

"And why is that?"

"You're not here."

Athos blinked. "I'm not?"

"None of you are here. You are all dead." His breath hitched. "My friends are all dead."

"Ah, but you don't know me, so how can I be dead?"

Aramis looked up then, his expression puzzled.

"What?"

"Give me your hand," said Athos, reaching out cautiously with his own.

"Why?"

"So you can feel the warmth of my skin and know that I live."

"No. You are all dead. Except for Marsac." The pistol in Aramis' hand wobbled. "He left me."

"Yes he did," said Athos. "But I won't. Now, give me the pistol, Aramis."

"Give it to you?"

"Yes."

"All right."

Aramis straightened, but only took half a step forward before he collapsed.

Athos reached him in time to prevent his head from striking the table. As he lowered him gently to the floor, Athos called out for Porthos.

Porthos must have been waiting just outside the door, for he reached Athos' side between one breath and the next.

"Is he all right?"

"I think he has just passed out."

Porthos took the pistol. "You're bloody lucky he didn't shoot you."

"I don't think he really believed I was here."

"Huh?"

"From what he said, I gather he was seeing the faces of his dead companions."

Porthos grimaced. "Damn."

"There is something else though."

"Yeah?"

"The entire time he was talking, his speech was perfectly clear."

"So, what does that mean? You don't honestly believe he's faking it, do you?"

"Not at all," said Athos. "But it does suggest that whatever the cause, it may heal itself in time."

"Well, that's good news at least. Do we tell him? It's not like we know for sure."

"I see no harm in telling him what we do know. It may give him more hope," said Athos.

"You might be right. We should probably get him to bed. Serge wants to be in here."

Porthos lifted Aramis as easily as a child. Athos collected his hat, sword and pistol from Serge outside.

Aramis stirred as they crossed the courtyard. He stared muzzily at Porthos. "No... feet on floor."

"You can walk when you can manage it without falling over," said Porthos. Aramis struggled, but his limbs were too uncoordinated to be effective. "Don't," Porthos warned. "If I drop you, it'll be in the horse trough." Porthos snorted at the look of indignation on Aramis' face.

They returned Aramis back to his room, though he refused to take to his bed. Athos questioned him gently, and it became evident that Aramis had no recollection of holding Serge at bay with a pistol. Aramis grew more and more upset as they talked.

Porthos tried to reassure him. "You were probably sleep walking. We won't let it happen again. One of us will stay here all the time. Right?" Porthos looked at Athos.

"Yes, of course."

Aramis seemed to take some measure of comfort from this. "Not... not... me...uh... am... not... found... found... not..." He paused, took a breath and tried again. "Not... trouble... here."

"You wish to remain here?" Athos asked.

"Not all the time, surely?" said Porthos.

"I agree," said Athos. "You need rest, but that does not mean you should remain sequestered within these four walls."

Aramis shrugged and turned away.

*****

A second incident occurred shortly after nightfall. Porthos was sleeping in a chair by the door. He woke with a start when Aramis cried out. Porthos struggled to make out what was happening in the near total darkness; he sensed rather than saw Aramis trying to get past him.

"Aramis?"

"Marsac?"

Alarmed, Porthos realised Aramis was still asleep and wondered if he should try to wake him or guide him back to bed. The decision was taken from him as Aramis reached for the door latch, his hand brushing Porthos' in the darkness. Porthos felt around to try and block the latch with his own hand to prevent Aramis from leaving. When he gently nudged Aramis away he wasn't expecting Aramis to erupt into violence.

There was a scuffle as Porthos tried to restrain Aramis without causing him further injury. A cuff to the head left his ears ringing. The shouting was a mixture of French and Spanish; what parts Porthos understood left him in no doubt that Aramis was mad enough to do him further harm if he ventured to let go.

Most of the neighbouring rooms along the passage were empty; the few occupants were woken by the noise and came to see what was happening. Athos was among them and he did what he could to send the curious onlookers away. He then joined Porthos.

Athos lit several more candles before crouching beside Porthos, who was now using his whole body to contain a struggling Aramis.

"He's stronger than he looks," grunted Porthos, turning his face aside quickly to avoid a broken nose as Aramis snapped his head back. "Maybe we should wake him up?"

"A worthy plan," said Athos. "Though I am at a loss what to propose if this has not woken him."

"I'll kill you," snarled Aramis. "Hijo de puta." He tried ineffectually to free his hands and when that failed he let loose with another stream of angry Spanish.

Porthos caught Athos' look. "Did you understand all of that?

"My Spanish is a little rusty, but I believe I got the intent."

"Yeah, I'm really not having any trouble with that part," said Porthos. "Fuck, don't bite me you vicious-" He glared at Athos as he tried to keep his hands clear of Aramis' teeth. "You know, you could help."

"I am trying to think of something we could use to wake him up."

"Maybe some cold water?" Porthos suggested.

"A moment," said Athos. He left Porthos holding Aramis, who was still spitting curses at them both. He returned with a small vial that he had retrieved from his own room. "Be ready," he cautioned.

Porthos peered at the vial. "Spirit of hartshorn?"

"Yes," said Athos, uncorking the vial. Aramis reaction was immediate, as he inhaled sharply and instinctively drew away. Athos placed the stopped back in the vial and gently touched Aramis on the shoulder. "Aramis?"

Aramis blinked at him, pupils huge in the candlelight.

"Do you know where you are?" Athos asked.

"On... the... the ceiling... no... no."

"Think he means the floor," said Porthos. He pulled an apologetic face when Aramis turned his head to glare at him.

"Perhaps, gentlemen, you would both like to get up?" Athos stepped back to give the two men space to disentangle themselves. Aramis retreated to his bed, every line of his body spoke of his misery, as he curled up on his side facing the wall, effectively shutting them both out.

"I would keep the door bolted," Athos advised quietly.

Porthos nodded but his eyes were on Aramis. "You staying?" he asked.

Athos hesitated, but then agreed. "Very well."

Aramis' shoulders stiffened.

Porthos walked up to the bed. "Look, no one's suggesting you need a keeper. But we really only have two choices here. You can tie yourself to your bed, or we stay. I know which one I would choose."

Aramis didn't respond. Porthos glanced back at Athos, indicating that he should say something.

"I must concur. Although, given the noise he makes whilst asleep, you may not get very much rest."

"Oi," Porthos protested, though there was no rancour in it.

A loud snort came from the bed, followed by another. At the third, Porthos looked bewildered. Athos' lips quirked in amusement. "Apparently our friend agrees. I would say that is an accurate rendition."

Porthos' mouth dropped open as he realised that Aramis was mimicking his snoring. He shook his head and smiled as Aramis rolled over. "Cheeky sod." He was pleased to see the faint trace of humour in Aramis' face, though it did little to detract from the man's waxy pallor.

"Fine," said Porthos, reaching a decision. "You best move up." He sat down on the edge of the bed and began to tug off his boots. Both Athos and Aramis regarded him in confusion. "I sleep soundest when I'm comfortable," he explained. "You want me to be quiet? Then share the bed." Porthos waited. It wasn't a lie, but his reason was twofold. Aramis would hopefully find it more difficult to go on his nocturnal wanderings if he had to clamber over Porthos to do so.

Aramis shuffled closer to the wall. He extended his arm in an exaggerated flourish to indicate that Porthos was welcome to a share of the bed.

Porthos responded with a grin before lying down happily. He had been getting a crick in his neck from that bloody chair.

"I suppose I will have to take the chair," said Athos. He snuffed out the candles before retreating across the room.

Porthos moved around trying to get comfortable. He glowered at the figure alongside him when he was jabbed with a bony knee. "Let me get myself sorted," he muttered. He started in surprise when an arm encircled his chest, drawing him into a sleeping position. "Right. Goodnight then." The arm around him squeezed once in reply.

Sometime later, snores emanated from the other side of the room.

Porthos was concerned when Aramis began to tremble, until he realised the vibrations were caused by Aramis laughing silently.

******

Those gathered to witness the interment of twenty dead musketeers stood facing the prepared graves, their breath forming crystallised clouds. For Athos, the sight and the smell of the freshly turned earth brought a deluge of unwelcome memories. He tried to drive them back and focus instead on the man standing beside him.

Aramis' eyes were dry but his face was taut with grief. To the best of their knowledge, he had not slept the night before and had consumed little of the food placed before him. Beneath the distinctive blue of his musketeer cloak, his back was ramrod straight, but as the first body was lowered into the earth, he swayed dangerously.

Exchanging concerned glances, Porthos and Athos moved closer, endeavouring to ensure Aramis remained upright. During the reading one distraught woman started to sob loudly; her husband attempted to comfort but fell victim to his own grief. Another collapsed and had to be carried from the graveside.

Finally, the last body was laid to rest. Athos ached from the prolonged tension. He glanced at Porthos and saw the larger man's shoulders drop as he let out a long breath.

"I'm glad that's over."

Athos shared the sentiment, but as his gaze drifted over the mourners who still lingered by the graves and then at Aramis, he murmured, "Not for every one."

Athos had not intended it as a criticism. Even so, Porthos winced.

"No," he agreed. "Not for every one." As Porthos watched, an elderly man dropped to his knees beside one of the graves, clutching at the simple wooden marker as he wept. His wife was trying to get him to come with her.

"You two all right on your own for a bit?" Porthos asked.

Athos nodded.

"Then I'll see you back at the garrison," said Porthos, heading toward the distraught pair.

It was too far for Athos to hear what words were said between them, but with a gentleness that belied his size, Porthos got the elderly gentleman to his feet and led the couple away.

Athos placed a hand on Aramis' shoulder. "Are you ready to leave?"

Aramis cast a sober glance over the field of fresh graves and nodded.

*****

Athos returned to the garrison with Aramis. Wanting a drink, he left Aramis briefly to retrieve a bottle from his own quarters. As he stepped back out into the passageway, he heard voices coming from Aramis' room. At first Athos assumed it was Porthos who was speaking, but as he drew near the door, Athos realised he did not recognise the voice. The door was ajar and Athos could see an unfamiliar man standing beside Aramis' bed. More worryingly, the man was holding a pistol.

The man jabbed the weapon fiercely at the cross hanging on the wall. "Tell me why? Why my son? He was the kindest, sweetest boy, and as good and gentle a man as any. Why did he have to die? Why do you live?" He walked around the bed, still gesticulating wildly with his pistol.

As the man stepped out of sight, Athos drew his own pistol and gently nudged the door, hoping to increase his field of vision. The creak it gave drew the attention of both men. The pistol swung toward Athos.

Aramis raised a hand to indicate that Athos should stay where he was.

Athos ignored him and moved forward, keeping his own pistol pointed at the stranger. "Sir, I must ask that you leave. This man is unwell and needs to rest. I am certain the Captain would be willing speak with you, if you have matters to discuss."

As he was speaking, Athos saw movement from the corner of his eye. He guessed it was Porthos but dare not look to confirm it. Instead, he discreetly gestured that whoever it was should not come any closer.

"Not... them... no... no... not blame." Aramis didn't even blink as the pistol pointed back at him.

The man's face scrunched up in confusion. "What?"

Aramis flexed his fingers and breathed out slowly. "Not... blame them. Not... not." He pointed at Athos. "Not... him... not Athos. Not blame."

The man kept his pistol trained on Aramis as he addressed Athos. "Were you there?"

"No," said Athos, quietly. "Am I to understand your son was one of those killed in the forest?"

The pistol wavered as the man tried to withhold a sob. "Yes. Robert. His name was Robert."

Ignoring the danger of the loaded pistol inches from his face, Aramis clicked his fingers to get the man's attention. Once he had it, Aramis pointed to his mouth and held up three fingers.

Athos was baffled, but the grieving father nodded. "Yes, he was missing his front teeth. He lost them when he was a boy, playing on a frozen pond." The man smiled sadly at the memory. "You knew him well then?" he asked Aramis, hopefully.

Aramis pursed his lips and whistled.

To Athos' amazement, the man gave a watery laugh. "That's right. He could whistle through the gap." The hand holding the pistol dropped to the man's side. "He was a good lad."

Aramis took the weapon from his lax grip and handed it to Athos.

The man looked at Aramis. "Will you pray with me?"

Aramis smiled gently and got off the bed to kneel on the floor beside it. Athos watched as the man knelt too. As the man bowed his head, Aramis looked across at Athos, indicating with his eyes and a tilt of his head that Athos should join them.

Athos found himself sinking to his knees as Aramis' lips moved silently in prayer.

Porthos was getting impatient, and as the voices suddenly fell silent, he moved forward to find out what was happening. He was bewildered to discover Aramis, Athos, and a third unknown man, knelt in prayer. Porthos gave the three a look and walked back out again.

He stopped and turned as he heard footsteps behind him. "What was all that about?" he asked Athos.

Instead of explaining, Athos asked his own question. "Did you see that man at the funeral?"

After thinking for a moment, Porthos nodded slowly. "Yeah, wasn't he the one who caught that woman who fainted? I thought she was going to fall in the hole."

"I don't recall," said Athos. Caught between his memories and his concern for Aramis, he had paid scant attention to the individual mourners.

"Yeah, pretty sure he was. What did he want with Aramis?"

Athos held out the pistol.

Porthos' eyebrows rose. "Seriously? Who was he going to shoot? Not Aramis, surely?"

"To be honest, I'm not sure what his intentions were," said Athos. "I doubt very much he was thinking clearly. He may have had no intention beyond finding a sympathetic ear."

"Then why the pistol, if he just wanted a chat?"

"There you have me," Athos admitted. "Though he handed it over peacefully enough. Maybe he simply thought he would get more attention with it."

"He might have got himself shot," said Porthos.

Athos couldn't argue with that.

"So, do we report him? It hardly seems right," said Porthos. "The man just buried his kin."

"His son," said Athos. "It was his son. Someone called Robert."

"Cloutier?"

"He didn't say."

"Cloutier, has to be. Nice lad. Fairly new to the regiment. The others use to tease him a bit, just good natured stuff, you know."

"Because of his teeth?"

"What? No, because of his hair. Bright red and curly. You could see him coming a mile off."

Both men winced as they considered how that hair would have certainly been a target in a snowy forest.

"Perhaps we should ask Aramis," said Porthos. "He's in there with the father now, isn't he?"

Athos nodded.

"Well then. He can't be much of a threat, or you wouldn't be out here, would you?"

Athos hadn't actually considered that when he had followed Porthos. He trusted Aramis' ability to handle the situation and said as much to Porthos.

"Yeah?" Porthos' expression said he would like to hear more.

"The end of a pistol not even two inches from his nose, and he didn't blink. He carried on the entire time as though the man was unarmed, and is now in there praying with him."

"I heard he's like that," said Porthos.

"Brave?"

"Well, that too. But actually, I was thinking of a bit mad." Porthos grinned.

A corner of Athos' mouth curled in the in the faint semblance of a smile.

They sobered as they were joined by Aramis and the bereaved father.

"I'm sorry," the man began. "I don't know what I was thinking. It's just been so much to take in, and his poor mother. She's beside herself. He was our only child. She always hoped he would wed, but there was always too much fire in his belly for that. He came to Paris the first chance he got. Proved himself a fine soldier and caught the King's eye, no less. And now... now he's..." The man's voice broke.

Aramis placed an arm around him, and didn't seem discomfited when the man burrowed into the embrace, shoulders shaking as he wept. Aramis met Athos and Porthos' questioning looks with a frown and slight shake of his head, letting them know he wanted no further action to be taken.

Neither man was happy to keep the presence of an intruder from the Captain. Nor did they want to lose the ground they had made with Aramis. They finally agreed that it would be churlish to make trouble for a man overcome with grief, and so they watched Aramis calm the man and bid him farewell at the gate.

*****

Aramis retreated further into himself following the funeral. If he had said little before, now he was virtually silent. Porthos became adept at anticipating his needs and did not push him to speak. Whereas, Athos felt the swiftest path to recovery lay in Aramis relearning the skills he had apparently forgotten. Between the two of them they managed to find the middle ground. Athos tried to discourage Porthos from doing too much for Aramis. While Porthos endeavoured to ensure that Athos did not push Aramis too hard.

They appeared to have hit upon the solution to the problem of Aramis' sleep walking. As long as Porthos slept beside him, Aramis remained in his bed. Though this did not mean that he was still or quiet. He cried out frequently in his sleep. On more than one occasion through the night he would suddenly sit bolt upright, flailing his limbs like a man under attack.

Meal times were if anything, even worse. They soon discovered Aramis could not be harried, coaxed, or bribed into eating. Eventually, they took it in turns to take him a plate of food.

On this occasion it was Athos' turn to beard the lion in its den. Aramis didn't make eye contact, accepting the plate with a cursory nod. However, as he attempted to begin his meal, a muscle spasm caused the fork to slip from his grasp. Aramis stared as it clattered to the floor. While it would have been inconsequential annoyance on any other day, on this day Aramis had already reached his limit. Frustrated and angry, he hurled the plate to the ground before Athos could stop him.

Athos left without speaking, returning a short time later with a second plate of food. He held the plate out to Aramis, who scowled at him. "You might want to clear up after," said Athos, mildly. "Unless you wish to share your quarters with the mice and rats."

Aramis snatched the plate from him; pointedly ignoring the utensil in favour of eating the food with his fingers.

In addition to the food, Athos had also brought wine. He drank from the bottle then offered it to Aramis. Aramis gave Athos a sharp look before taking it with a terse nod of thanks.

They continued to pass the bottle back and forth between them. The silence gradually grew less tense and more companionable. Finally, Aramis finished eating and set the plate aside. Athos left briefly, returning with a second bottle. Aramis' eyebrows drew upwards.

"Do I take it you don't want any more?" Athos asked. Aramis held out a hand impatiently. Athos ignored it, sitting down next to him on the bed. "If you wish to share, you must ask first." The hand was snatched back. Athos shrugged and took another drink.

Aramis watched Athos' throat as he swallowed. Then jabbed Athos in the side with an elbow.

Athos wiped the wine from his chin with the back of his hand.

Aramis flashed an insincere smile before adopting a look of fierce determination as he tried to force out the words. "Water... I... water... drink."

"Not water. Wine."

"I know... water... yes... water." Aramis released a harsh breath through his nose and shook his head in self disgust.

Athos observed him carefully. "You know this holds wine?" Athos held up the bottle.

Aramis rolled his eyes.

"But you cannot say that it does?"

Aramis shook his head morosely.

"And you cannot write it down?"

"No." Aramis spat.

Athos handed Aramis the bottle. Surprised, he accepted it and took a long drink.

"It seems the problem does not lie in your memory."

Aramis took another even longer drink.

Athos touched his arm and waited until he had Aramis's full attention. "Think of it like this. If you take water from a place where the river bed is sandy and shake it, the water becomes cloudy. Give it time and the sand will settle, leaving the water clear again. You received a blow that has displaced your thoughts. Give them time and they may become clear again."

Seeing the tentative hope in Aramis' expression, Athos decided to tell him of their discovery. "I know you do not recall what occurred in Serge's kitchen, but I spoke with you, and your words were perfectly clear."

Aramis stared at him, his fingers tightening on the neck of the bottle. "Talk... I... talked..?"

"Quite eloquently," Athos assured him. There was a visible sheen to Aramis' eyes and Athos was torn between regret that he had not spoken earlier and concern that he was giving Aramis false hope.

They shared the reminder of the wine between them.

When Porthos arrived the pair were sitting outside; Athos was still drinking, Aramis was cleaning his pistol with meticulous care.

"Want to try some target practice later?" Porthos asked.

Aramis paused in his task, pointing at himself and then at Porthos.

"Yeah, if you like. Athos, how about it. You in?"

Athos looked up from his cup. "Hmm?"

"Musket practice. We can set up some targets. How about were try best of five? The losers pay for dinner."

"Best of five, you say?"

Porthos and Aramis nodded.

"Very well, I accept."

*****

Treville watched them set up the targets in the garrison yard. One for each man.

"Do we shoot together?" Porthos asked.

Treville walked over to join them. "Gentlemen. If you wish, I can adjudicate?"

Accepting his offer, the three placed the muskets on their rests.

"In your own time, gents," said Treville.

Athos narrowed his gaze. His first shot was just shy of the centre ring. Porthos scored slightly closer. Aramis' head dropped as he fired. Athos and Porthos both stared at the circular target - and the hole dead centre of it. They reloaded. Athos second shot was slightly better. Porthos' about the same. Aramis hit dead centre again, widening the original hole.

Athos looked across at Aramis, who met his disbelieving gaze with dancing eyes. It was the most animated Athos had seen the younger man, and he could not begrudge Porthos' decision to hold the friendly contest. Though it looked like it was going to cost him the price of a meal.

By the fourth shot, he and Porthos had lowered their own muskets in favour of watching Aramis make his last.

In the end all five were grouped in the very centre.

"I have never seen such skill," said Athos, not even trying to hide his admiration.

"Aramis is the finest shot I have seen." There was more than a hint of paternal pride in Treville's tone.

Porthos had walked up to take a closer look at Aramis' target. "Damn. Every single one," he said in disbelief. "I knew you were good, but this." He shook his head.

"How are you with a sword?" Athos asked, with studied casualness.

Aramis made a gesture that indicated he felt he was more than fair.

"Then perhaps another day we could test our blades against one another?"

Aramis' expression said that was acceptable.

Porthos clapped Athos on the back. "That's tomorrow's diner sorted. How about the day after we try a little hand-to-hand?"

Aramis and Athos both looked at Porthos. Aramis shook his head at the same time as Athos said, "I think I must decline."

"If I were you, I would consider that challenge forfeited," said Treville, who was following their conversation with some amusement, "and make them both pay for dinner."

Porthos grinned.

*****

After clearing away the targets, Aramis insisted on cleaning his musket. He remained in good spirits, and offered them the use of his cleaning implements when they joined him.

Later that afternoon, Porthos broached the subject of dinner. "I know a good place," he said. "It's not too far from here, either." Aside from the day of the funeral, Aramis had not stepped outside of the garrison. Indeed, he had scarcely ventured from his room.

Aramis looked up to find the other two waiting on his reply. "I... yes," he agreed, cautiously.

The three men retired to their own rooms. When they met again it was clear Aramis had made an effort to smarten his appearance. Since he had not worn a bandage for the last few days he had styled his hair to disguise the still healing wound. His beard had been neatly trimmed and in addition to his normal attire he had donned a fine shirt with an embroidered collar. For the first time since they had met him he wore his sword and carried a pistol on his belt.

The streets were crowded and Athos was grateful they did not have far to go. As they walked, he thought he detected a certain reluctance to Aramis' steps. Eventually, Athos stopped. "Do you suspect us of reneging on our agreement to pay for dinner?"

Visibly startled, Aramis shook his head.

"Then perhaps we could proceed in a manner that will allow us to reach our destination before nightfall?"

Glowering, Aramis increased his pace and they continued toward the tavern.

They selected a table in a quiet corner. A young woman came to take their order; her flirtatious smile encompassed them all, though her gaze lingered on Aramis.

"What can I get you, handsome?"

Aramis shot Athos and Porthos alarmed sidelong glances.

The woman's smile faltered as the silence grew more prolonged. "Did you just want a drink? Or something to eat?"

"Eat... yes," said Aramis, stiffly.

Sensing that Aramis was a heartbeat away from leaping up from the table, Athos spoke.

"Please bring us food and wine, if you would. My friend is recovering from wounds he obtained in the service of the King."

The woman looked interested. "So, you're a soldier then?"

"Musketeers," corrected Porthos.

She made an impressed noise. "And you're wounded?" she asked Aramis, when he nodded she sidled a little closer. "What ever did they do to you, sweetheart?"

Aramis swept his hair aside to reveal the healing gash. When she clucked in sympathy he played along, looking at her from under his lashes.

"Want me to kiss it better?" she asked.

Aramis showed no sign of his earlier discomfort as he touched his lips with a gloved finger and looked hopefully at her. She complied eagerly, letting him draw her gently her onto his lap.

"Look out," Porthos murmured, nudging Athos' arm to get his attention as the kiss deepened to the obvious pleasure of both parties.

Athos found his mouth curving in an involuntary smile.

When they finally came up for air, the woman made a show of fanning herself with her hand. "There's a kiss to cure all ills," she crowed. "You're welcome here any time, love."

Aramis caught hold of her other hand and placed a kiss upon the back of it, his eyes smiling.

She giggled and pushed playfully at his shoulder. "Oh, go on with you." She climbed off his lap and sashayed away to fetch their food and wine.

Porthos shook his head in open disbelief. Aramis responded with a faux innocent look.

She didn't keep them waiting long. Aramis tugged her close to nuzzle behind her ear after she had finished setting down the contents of her tray. She laughed and trailed her fingers slowly over his shoulders as she walked away. Aramis shut his eyes, leaning into her touch like a flower seeking the rays of the sun.

Athos watched in amusement as he poured himself some wine, recalling what Porthos had said about Aramis being something of a Lothario.

Aramis' spirits remained high throughout the meal and he ate more than either had seen him do. They returned to the garrison and sat in the courtyard. Athos brought more wine from his room. It did not escape their notice that he drank two or three cups for every one of theirs.

Athos caught them looking. "I find I sleep better for it," was all he was willing to say, however.

Aramis nudged Porthos under the table with his foot, and brought a hand up to conceal his face as he snorted.

Athos frowned.

Aramis snorted again, a replica of his previous imitation of Porthos.

Porthos flashed a quick toothy grin. "He's right. It makes you snore."

Athos found no malice, only good humour and gentle understanding. These men had their own demons, he realised. They understood, and would not take him to task for his behaviour, nor would they demand answers of him. His faint smile felt less strained than it had of late. "Then perhaps, gentlemen, you should both drink up. I dare say you'll sleep the sounder for it."

Porthos guffawed, and Aramis' smile turned into a huff of laughter.

*****

After a surprisingly sound night's sleep, the three men joined one another for breakfast next morning. Porthos squinted against the early morning sun. "So, how about this challenge then?"

The two stared nonplussed at him.

"You know, swords."

Aramis made an "ah" face and looked questioningly at Athos, who stared blearily at them both.

"Very well, but first let us finish our breakfast." Athos' stomach was protesting the ratio of wine to food, and he hoped a little more of the latter would quieten it. They agreed and cleared the table before taking to the yard. As Athos performed a few warming up stretches, he wondered if a little less food might not have been a better idea.

Aramis made the sign of the cross with his sword and dagger, and they began.

Athos quickly discerned that Aramis had considerable skill, but in this at least he far outmatched the younger man. Athos could see the growing admiration on Aramis' face as he drew the same conclusion.

Despite this, Aramis got in a couple of good attacks. He was quick and agile, and certainly not averse to fighting dirty. Athos eventually caught Aramis off guard and pressed home his attack.

Aramis' eyes flashed dangerously as he bared his throat to the point of Athos' sword.

Porthos stood up, watching the pair closely.

Athos lowered his blade with a respectful tilt of his head. "You're very good."

Aramis brought his hand to his chest to acknowledge the compliment; then swept his arm out as he gave a small bow in recognition of Athos' superior swordsmanship.

Porthos relaxed. "It looks like you're paying for dinner tonight," he told Aramis.

Aramis' shrug implied he didn't mind.

****

The next few days were a mixture of highs and lows. Aramis' appetite improved steadily and he was able to rest despite the nightmares he experienced with unnerving regularity. Porthos and Athos grew used to being jolted from their sleep and eventually they stopped instinctively reaching for a weapon. Porthos continued to sleep alongside Aramis. They brought in a second cot after Athos voiced his dislike of sleeping in the chair. There was never any suggestion made that he should return to his own room.

Aramis' spirits remained high during training, when drinking or dining together, and on one memorable afternoon when the three took a ride outside the city.

Aramis proved to be a capable rider. Both he and Athos offered advice and encouragement to Porthos. After listening to his grumbling for over an hour, Aramis brought his horse along side Porthos'.

"Hold... hold... " Aramis abandoned his attempt to speak and instead held up the reins gathered together in one hand, while gripping the pommel of his saddle with the other.

Porthos, however, looked confused. For once unable to discern Aramis' meaning.

"I believe he wants you to place the reins in your right hand and hold onto the pommel with your left," said Athos.

"What, you mean like this?" said Porthos, resting his hand on the front of the saddle.

"No," said Athos. "Grip it tightly."

"Why- whoa!" Porthos yelled as Aramis slapped the rump of his horse, sending it forward at a gallop. Athos and Aramis raced with him, encouraging Porthos' horse to keep pace with theirs.

The three men finally pulled up. Aramis was breathless and laughing. Even Athos wore a smile as he reached forward to pat the neck of his horse. Porthos wore a heavy scowl as he pointed a finger at Aramis. "Just you wait, you-"

Aramis raised his hands in a gesture of appeasement. He turned to Athos, whose answering look said that Aramis was on his own.

To their astonishment, Porthos threw his head back and laughed. "You should see your faces." He brought his mount closer to Aramis and nudged the other man playfully. "I know what you wanted. You wanted me to feel what's it's really like to ride, not perch like a bird on a branch, yeah?"

Aramis smiled warmly.

"Yeah, it felt good. But," Porthos added, "don't ever do that again."

Aramis placed his hand over his heart in a silent promise.

The lows were the nightmares, the memories Aramis could not evade, and the frustration of his halting speech. Whenever Aramis became despondent, Athos and Porthos sought to remind him that during his nightmares he spoke clearly.

During the lows Aramis would hole up in his quarters, shunning their company. However, as they began to recognise the signs, Athos and Porthos attempted to draw him out of his dark moods before they could take hold.

Sensing that Aramis' spirits had taken a turn for the worse this particular morning, Athos invited him on a walk outside the garrison. Aramis displayed little enthusiasm until he encountered an attractive distraction.

As Athos led Aramis away from the blushing young lady and her giggling maid, he could only wonder what he and Porthos would have to contend with when Aramis regained the use of his voice.

He was still musing over this as they drew nearer the garrison. Before they could enter however, they were intercepted by Porthos, his expression grim.

"We have a problem."

He hurriedly appraised them of the situation, and the three men were careful to keep out of sight as they approached the main gate.

The Captain was kneeling on the balcony that overlooked over the yard, his fingers laced behind his head. Pacing back and forth across the narrow space was a man holding a pistol.

Athos' breath hissed between his teeth as he recognised the grieving father.

"Yeah. Not good," said Porthos.

"I did not expect him to return," said Athos, his mouth tightening in dismay.

"Yeah well, apparently he had other plans."

"Clearly," said Athos.

"So, what do we do?"

"Is there any one else inside the garrison?"

Porthos thought. "Maybe Serge. A stable lad or two, possibly? The rest'll be on duty by now. Do you think we should send word to them? Round up some more help?"

"I do not think in this case that additional men will be of benefit. It may even work against us."

"You think it could rattle him?"

"It is a risk we cannot take," said Athos. "No. We must deal with this matter ourselves."

Porthos pulled a face. Nevertheless, he nodded in agreement. He looked at Aramis. "What about you? Are you with us?"

As the most experienced musketeer among them, Aramis could have insisted upon assuming command, but he seemed content to defer that role to Athos. He gave a sharp nod.

"So, how are we going to do this?" Porthos asked. "We can't rush him. He'll blow the Captain's head off before we can make it to the first step."

"We will have to persuade him to surrender his weapon."

"I don't think he's in the mood to listen."

"I... target... target... can..." Aramis made an exasperated noise and mimed aiming a musket.

Porthos guessed what he was suggesting and shook his head. "It's too far to risk a shot from here, and I don't see how as we can get any closer without being seen."

Athos seemed to share his opinion. "An accurate shot from this distance would be difficult."

"Me... I can... I... I..." Aramis repeated the musket firing action and pointed at himself, nodding firmly.

Athos frowned. "You believe that you can make the shot?"

Aramis nodded again.

"That'd be a hell of a trick." said Porthos, admiration in his tone.

Athos levelled an evalulating look at Aramis. "I do not doubt your skill. But how close would you need to be for an accurate shot with that?" He indicated the arquebus hanging from Aramis' belt.

Aramis unhooked the weapon. He held it confidently and cocked his head toward the garrison interior.

"If you can get inside, you can make the shot?"

Aramis drew himself up tall and nodded.

"There's no way he can get in there without being seen," objected Porthos.

"Not without a distraction, no," agreed Athos.

"What did you have in mind?" Porthos asked. His face turned worried as Athos began to remove his weapons. "What are you thinking?"

"I will attempt to speak with Monsieur Cloutier. Hopefully, I will be able to hold his attention long enough for Aramis to make the shot."

Aramis grabbed hold of Athos' arm, his expression alarmed.

"That does not sound like a good plan," argued Porthos. "What if he decides to blow your head off instead?"

"Then I trust you both to stop him before he is able to reload."

Aramis tugged sharply on Athos' arm, and when Athos looked, he shook his head. Before Athos could speak, Aramis drew Athos into a one-armed embrace.

Startled, Athos felt a second pair of arms encircle them both.

"This is not a suicide mission," said Porthos, gruffly.

Athos swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat as he found himself overwhelmed by the impromptu gesture and the worry implicit in it. He tried to find the words to reassure them.

"No. No, indeed it is not."

Porthos and Aramis released him and stepped back. Athos attempted to recover his equilibrium.

"I give you both my word that I will do my utmost not to provoke him further."

"The armoury is attached to the office," Porthos reminded them. "We can't chance him getting in there."

"What did you have in mind?" Athos asked.

"If I can get to the stables, I reckon I can make my way onto the roof. I won't risk trying to take him unless the shot fails to hit its target."

Aramis huffed indignantly.

"Not that I believe it will," said Porthos, quickly. "I just think it's a good idea to have a reserve plan in place. If he's just startled by the shot, or wounded, I can make the most of the distraction if I'm close at hand."

"I agree," said Athos. "If you are certain that you can make it onto the roof undetected?"

Porthos looked uncomfortable for a moment. Then he pulled back his shoulders. "I grew up in the Court of Miracles, I don't reckon there's a rooftop in Paris I can't get onto if I have to. And I can promise he won't know I'm there."

He waited to see how this information would be received by his companions. He need not have worried.

There was the trace of a smile on Athos' face as he inclined his head in deference to Porthos' unusual skill set, while Aramis slapped Porthos on the shoulder with his own smile in place.

"Then it's settled," said Athos. "I will engage Monsieur Cloutier in conversation, while you make your way onto the roof, and you line up the shot. Fire whenever you are ready," he told Aramis.

The other two nodded, and Athos prepared to walk through the main gate.

"Good luck," said Porthos.

"Fine... you... good." Aramis held up his hand and mimed someone speaking.

"He's right," said Porthos. "You're good at this. He'll probably just give you his pistol. In fact, we could just sit here and wait." He glanced at Aramis, who caught onto his humour and nodded in apparent agreement.

"I would rather you didn't," said Athos, dryly.

"Fair enough," said Porthos. "See you later, gentlemen."

He and Aramis prepared to slip inside the garrison on their cue.

Athos walked slowly through the main gate. He had barely stepped into the yard before he was spotted by Cloutier.

"You! What do you want?"

Athos kept his hands out by his sides to show that they were empty. "I am reporting for duty. I am Athos, of the musketeers."

"No, no, no," said Cloutier, anxiously shaking his head. "They have all left. I waited. I waited until they had all gone for the day. Who are you?"

"As I said, my name is Athos. We have met before, I believe. Monsieur Cloutier, yes?"

Cloutier cast a harried look at Treville. He kept his pistol on him as he peered over the balcony at Athos, who pushed back his hat to allow Cloutier a clearer look at his face.

"Yes, I know you. You were the musketeer who told me I should talk to your Captain."

"I said he would be willing to listen to your grievances."

Cloutier made a sound of disgust. "Well, you were wrong. He refuses to tell me anything. Claims he cannot discuss musketeer business with outsiders!"

"If it pertains to the safety of the King, it would be remiss of him to do so," said Athos.

Cloutier took a step toward Treville, jabbing the pistol close to his face. "This is about twenty dead men! Men you were responsible for. Who killed them? Why did they die? Why did my son die?"

From his viewpoint in the courtyard below, Athos could not see the Captain, but he heard his reply.

"Yes, they were my men. I chose them. I trained them, and I feel the loss of each and every one. I am truly sorry. But I cannot answer your questions."

"They were murdered!" said Cloutier, his voice cracking. "Who will be held accountable for their deaths, if not you?"

"I cannot say," said Treville.

"No." Cloutier shook his head. "My son will have justice. His murderer must hang. I will have a name!"

Athos decided to intervene. Hopefully, Porthos and Aramis were in place. He dare not look upward to the rooftop, for fear that he would alert Cloutier and give away Porthos' position.

"Monsieur Cloutier, most likely it was Spanish raiders who murdered those men. They will long since have retreated to the safety of their own territory. It may be we will cross swords with them in the future. But we cannot hope to dispense the kind of justice you speak of."

Cloutier stared at him. "Spaniards?"

"Almost certainly," said Athos. "The area has suffered raids in the past. But no one could have foreseen that they would be bold enough to attack musketeers."

The pistol in Cloutier's hand shook.

"Spaniards," he repeated. "My son was murdered by Spaniards?"

"Yes," said Athos. "Please, Monsieur. Lay down your pistol."

"My wife said she wished it was me who had died. Me, and not our son," said Cloutier flatly. He stared at the pistol in his hand and then at Treville. "The Spaniards may have killed my son, but it was you who sent them into that forest." He brought the pistol up slowly.

"No!" Athos shouted.

"Cloutier!"

A shot rang out.

*****

Aramis tried to keep to the shadows, using whatever he could as cover. His chest tightened as he listened to the conversation. How many nights had he fallen sleep, only to wake panting and shaking, his body bathed in a cold sweat. Closing his eyes meant being plunged back into that forest; with the sounds of panicked horses, the clash of blades, and the desperate cries of men slaughtered before they could stand.

Ducking down behind some crates, Aramis eyed his trembling hands with horror. He curled over and pressed his forehead to the smooth barrel of his arquebus as he tried to calm his breathing. He cursed beneath his breath as he made ready his weapon, feeling slow and clumsy like a raw recruit.

All that was left to do was wait, hoping and praying that Cloutier would come to his senses and hand over his weapon.

It was with a dreadful sense of inevitability that Aramis listened to Cloutier placing the blame for his son's death on the Captain. As the man prepared to fire, Aramis knew the time for waiting was over.

He rose to his feet lending his own voice to Athos' cry of protest.

"Cloutier!"

Hearing his name, Cloutier turned his head in confusion. The pistol in his hand shifted a fraction from its target.

Aramis fired in the same instant.

The man jerked and fell back. The pistol dropping from nerveless fingers as the ball from the arquebus shattered his wrist.

Even before the echo of the shot had died away, Porthos dropped down onto the balcony. He pinned the man to the wooden boards, looking over at Treville to confirm that the Captain was unhurt.

If Treville was surprised by Porthos' sudden entrance, he didn't show it. He had already snatched up Cloutier's weapon and was looking down over the balcony to where Athos and Aramis stood, side by side.

****

Porthos got Cloutier to his feet. The man was startlingly pale, his shattered arm hung uselessly. No sooner was he upright than he bent double and retched. Porthos grimaced.

"He's going to need a surgeon to see to that arm."

Treville nodded. "Bring him into my office."

Cloutier was soon in the care of the surgeon, and word was sent to his wife. The man seemed to have lost his wits, for his gaze wandered vacantly about the room and he seemed neither aware of his surroundings nor his own injury.

"Will he lose the arm?" Porthos asked.

"Hard to say," said the surgeon. "Perhaps not, if the bones knit and the flesh doesn't putrefy."

Aramis lowered his head. Porthos put a hand on his shoulder.

"Look at it this way. At least he's still alive. If his mind and body heal, he will still have a full life."

"It was the right choice," said Athos, coming to standing next to them. "The man is grieving for his son. He didn't deserve to die for his actions, as misguided as they were."

"I'll tell you something else I noticed while I was hanging about on that roof top," said Porthos. "I heard you yell his name - and it was as clear as anything."

Aramis let out a shaky breath and rubbed the back of his neck, smiling wanly at them both.

****

Fortunately, Treville seemed to agree with their assessment of Cloutier. As the man was taken away, the Captain spoke to the assembled musketeers. "You did well, all of you. I'm grateful for your timely actions in this matter, gentlemen." He looked sharply at Aramis. "I trust that shot to his arm was intentional?"

Aramis nodded.

Treville turned his attention to Athos. "I have no issue with the decision you took not to kill him. The man was out of his mind with grief. I would however, like to know how you and he came to be acquainted?"

Aramis and Porthos exchanged worried glances.

Athos stared straight ahead. "The fault is entirely mine-"

"-no it damn well isn't."

"...I... not... no..."

Athos and Porthos continued to speak over the top of one another.

"The plan was mine."  
"We all agreed to it."  
"I take full responsibility."  
"If there's any punishment to be dealt out, it should be shared."

A shrill whistle silenced them both. They turned to look at a scowling Aramis, who stepped aside hastily when he realised the Captain was waiting to speak.

Treville cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, explain." When it looked like they would all try speak at once again, he held up his hand. "Athos, if you would, please?"

Athos related what had happened, starting with when the man entered Aramis' room. As his explanation drew to a close, he was conscious of Porthos and Aramis moving closer on either side of him.

Standing together they faced Treville.

"I can't say I'm pleased that you took the decision to keep this information from me. On this occasion, however, I am prepared to overlook it. But remember in future, gentlemen, that whatever goes on within the walls of this garrison is my business. You tell me, and I will decide whether it is of importance or not."

The three chorused a respectful, "Yes, sir."

"Good. Now I need a drink. I trust you'll join me?"

He poured each of them a measure of brandy.

Aramis' hand was steady as he accepted his glass.

 

 

 ** _Present day..._**  

"So, did Aramis' speech just correct itself?"

"In time his nightmares became less frequent. He returned to duty and as his spirits improved, so gradually, did his speech."

What became of Cloutier?"

"He didn't lose his arm, but he lost the full use of his hand. The Captain found him work in a vineyard belonging to his cousin. Cloutier and his wife settled there."

"They were reunited then? After what she had said?"

"Grief can lead a person to actions they regret later. I doubt she ever truly desired his death."

D'Artagnan lowered his voice.

"How much do you think the Captain knew?"

"Enough that it still pricks his conscience," said Athos. "Though I do not personally believe he knew enough to hold him accountable. However, it would not be wise to speak of it further."

"You think someone would use it against him?"

"There are many who are jealous of his position. I have little doubt they would seek to use it against him. But I was thinking more that it could endanger the very person this was all intended to protect."

"I won't speak of it," d'Artagnan vowed.

Athos gave a nod of approval and stood up, reaching for the bottle of wine to take along with him. "Come. We should join Porthos and Aramis."

"We should?"

"They will be expecting us."

"Both of us?" asked d'Artagnan, rising from the table.

Athos looked at him as though the answer was obvious. "Of course. You're one of us aren't you."

D'Artagnan smiled and hastened after the older man as Athos left the tavern. Porthos had taken Aramis to his own lodging house, and it was to there they headed.

They found a pale, bedraggled Aramis wrapped up in a bed cover, sitting in a chair by the fire.

"Let himself get soaked, he did," said Porthos, with a note of disapproval. "Found him sat on my doorstep like a stray cat."

"Did you give him a saucer of milk?" Athos asked, removing his hat and coat.

Aramis rolled his eyes at them both.

"I'd rather have some of that." He indicated the bottle Athos had placed on the table.

"We're going to need more than that. Hang about," said Porthos. He went into an adjoining room and returned with four more bottles.

"Well, that's Athos sorted. Now what will the rest of us drink?"

Aramis' remark caused d'Artagnan to give an undignified snort. He tried to disguise it with a sleeve over the lower part of his face. His eyes danced with silent laughter as he offered an apology.

"Sorry."

"See if I choose to share my wine with you," Athos declared with mock severity.

"None of that. We all share. You, sheath your claws," Porthos told Aramis.

The four settled down around the fire, ignoring glasses in favour of passing the bottle back and forth. Few words were exchanged between them, but the silence was companionable.

Athos saved the bottle when Aramis finally succumbed to an exhausted sleep.

D'Artagnan rubbed a hand over his face and yawned. "I should go."

"Will Madame Bonacieux be concerned if you do not return to your lodgings this evening?" Athos asked.

D'Artagnan frowned but shook his head. "Sometimes she has already retired before I return. Why?"

It was Porthos who replied.

"You should stay here. It's too late to be walking the streets alone. This time of night there's plenty out there who'll happily slit your throat for a coin."

"And you've consumed too much drink to be able to rely on defending yourself," said Athos.

"But aren't you returning to your lodgings?" d'Artagnan asked.

"I shall spend the night here," said Athos. "Aramis will rest more peacefully if we stay."

D'Artagnan looked around the room. There was one reasonably sized bed shoved against the wall. "Erm... where do we sleep?"

Porthos laughed and wandered over to a chest. From it he took out a selection of blankets. He threw a couple to Athos and two more to d'Artagnan.

"Make yourselves comfortable."

He approached Aramis next, calling his name and touching his arm gently to rouse him. Aramis looked up at him, blinking blearily and then glanced around the room. Realising it was time to retire for the evening, Aramis stood and let the blanket slide off his shoulders. Porthos steadied him and led him over to the bed. Aramis crawled onto it, more asleep than awake. Porthos lay down beside him. He had closed his eyes before he could bear witness to d'Artagnan's surprise.

Athos took advantage of d'Artagnan's distraction to secure the chair for himself. D'Artgnan was left to make a bed of sorts on the floor; though Athos did hand him one of his blankets. D'Artagnan accepted it gratefully. His head was already muzzy from the wine and it wasn't long before he felt himself drifting toward sleep. He was wrenched back from it rudely by the sound of snoring from the bed. D'Artagnan harrumphed in annoyance and turned over, trying to block out the noise with a fold of his blanket.

He groaned aloud when Athos' snores joined Porthos', forming a disharmonious chorus. He rolled up the third blanket and wrapped it around his head, trying to muffle the sounds.

Eventually, despite the noise in the room, he too drifted off to sleep.

*****

He was woken by distressed whimpering. Some time had passed, for the fire had died down to a few glowing embers and the room was mostly in darkness, but when d'Artagnan turned his head he could just make out the shadowy form of Aramis twisting and turning restlessly on the bed. The desperate sounds increased in volume and D'Artagnan was contemplating whether or not to intervene when he heard the creak of the chair as Athos stood up.

As d'Artagnan's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he watched Athos walk over to the bed just as Porthos pushed himself up on an elbow. The two men spoke in hushed voices.

"How long has he been like this?" Athos asked.

"Not long," said Porthos. "I thought it might pass, but-"

D'Artagnan could visualise Porthos' shrug.

"I think we should wake him," said Athos.

Porthos made a wordless sound of agreement. D'Artagnan could not see all that clearly, but it looked like Porthos was touching Aramis' face gently in addition to talking to him.

"Aramis? Aramis, can you wake up? Come on. You're with us. You're safe. Wake up now. Yeah, there you are."

Aramis made a sound like a drowning man taking a breath.

"We're here. Easy, we're here," said Porthos.

Aramis reached out blindly and Athos caught the flailing hand, wrapping it within his own. "We are with you, Aramis. You are not alone."

They stayed like that for a time. Aramis was quiet save for the occasional deep, shuddery breath. Porthos appeared to be stroking his hair while murmuring words of comfort that were too low for d'Artagnan to hear. Athos sat on the edge of the bed, still holding onto Aramis' hand.

Eventually, the tableau changed as Aramis pushed himself up the bed into a sitting position, and they all rearranged themselves.

"The boy?" Aramis asked, hoarsely. "Is he-?"

"Still here," Athos assured him. "Awake and listening, no doubt."

D'Artagnan felt the blood rush into his face.

"I'm sorry," he blurted out, mortified. "I didn't mean to. I was-"

"Shut up," said Porthos. "Do we sound angry? All we want to know is why you're still all the way over there. Come here, where Aramis can see you."

D'Artagnan wriggled free of his blankets. Athos had got up to light some candles. Aramis patted the vacated place on the bed and d'Artagnan sat down uncertainly. Aramis looked tired. His hair was still a bedraggled mess and the bruised shadows that had been his constant companion the past few days looked even more prominent in the flickering light of the candle flames.

"I never thanked you," said Aramis.

"For what?"

"For assisting me when I asked you to keep quiet about Marsac."

D'Artagnan gave a self-deprecating shrug. "He was your friend."

"But not yours," said Aramis. "You took a considerable risk. You had no reason to trust anything he said."

"I didn't," said d'Artagnan. "I trusted you."

Aramis' regarded him warmly. "You are a good man. One day you will make a fine musketeer."

D'Artagnan ducked his head, pleased by the praise.

"Yeah," said Porthos. "If he can learn to follow orders." He reached over to ruffle d'Artagnan's hair, ignoring the young man's protestations.

"He will have us to guide him," said Aramis. "By the time we have finished with him, he will be the finest musketeer in the regiment."

Athos came to sit beside Aramis with his back against the headboard. "Because of course who better to teach him what he should do and should not to do," he drawled.

Aramis elbowed him sharply, almost jostling him off the bed.

"He already has courage, honour, loyalty. But we can teach him the code of brotherhood."

Athos' expression was fond as he looked at Aramis. "Yes. If he is willing?" He turned his gaze to d'Artagnan.

"I would be honoured," said d'Artagnan.

"Not sure I can go back to sleep," said Porthos. "Any one feel like playing a game of cards?" He clambered over Aramis to fetch them.

D'Artagnan hesitated. He had watched Porthos play cards and he had barely enough money left to pay this week's rent.

"Lesson number one," Aramis whispered, leaning forward. "Never play for money with friends."

"And never cheat them," added Athos, quietly.

Admonished, d'Artagnan could not meet their gazes. He should have known that Porthos would not try to win money off him.

Aramis noticed his discomfort and patted his leg. "Why don't you see if there is any wine left. That is if Athos hasn't drunk it all."

Athos responded with a withering look as he brought his chair over to the table. Soon the four were seated around it, drinking and talking as they passed the time with a companionable game. The night progressed. No one seemed to be in any hurry to retire; though Aramis' head would nod occasionally before he started awake.

D'Artagnan tried to hide a grimace as he looked at the cards he had been dealt. He glanced up and felt a smile tug his mouth as he saw that Porthos had positioned himself so that if Aramis did succumb to sleep he would fall against him. D'Artgnan thought about what he had learned about these men. He realised that though his friendship with them had been hard won, he felt honoured to have earned a place among the ones they called The Inseparables.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by the sublime ponygirl; gorgeous artwork by the incredibly talented hine ~ you can check out her tumblr here: http://codedwords.tumblr.com/
> 
> Hugs and an enormous amount of thanks to you both!
> 
> The idea for this story came from a prompt over on the meme asking for a story set after the Savoy incident, which sees Aramis develops aphasia/speech impairment due to his head injury, and for Athos and Porthos to help him through his recovery.
> 
> I diverted a little from the original prompt in that I have Aramis suffering from ptsd aphasia. You can read more about it here:  
> http://www.ehealthme.com/cs/post-traumatic+stress+disorder/aphasia


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